


Every life you try to save dies

by AutumnHobbit



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Vs. Superman: Dawn Of Justice
Genre: Angst, Batfleck - Freeform, BvS au-ish, Character Study-ish, Child Death, Feels, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, One-Shot, Sort-Of Canon Compliant, father-son feels, jason angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:56:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7793452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnHobbit/pseuds/AutumnHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks of Alfred's disapproval, Dick's sorrow, and tries to bury the stab of pain in his chest. He hangs his head. He's killed so many people that he's almost lost count--no.</p><p>It's worse.</p><p>He hasn't kept count. He hasn't bothered.</p><p>And yet, the Joker still lives. </p><p>The joke really is on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every life you try to save dies

**Author's Note:**

> well I have very mixed feelings on BvS. On the one hand, Batfleck is probably (ironically) the closest to Bruce's actual character than anything else we've gotten thus far. On the other hand, wHY ThE FRiCK IS IT SO HARD To MEnTIOn ThE BaTBOySs BY NamE Or USE ThEM DIReCTLy. Anyway. This is a bit of self-indulgent angst. (What do you mean, Bruce didn't mean Jason in every line he spoke about failure and lost good guys and whatnot?)  
> Definitely inspired by Melliathwen's amazing BvS AU. Go read that. It's better than this mess.  
> Also I swear to freaking goodness that Of Beauty And Rage by Red is Jason's soundtrack and Impostor is about him and Bruce. Cry with me.  
> Anyway. Happy hour late birthday, Jay.

Luthor's envelope is clutched tightly in Bruce's hand as he marches into the Cave. It's empty, like always. Like recently. The stillness is wrong, and any second a curly headed boy should come bouncing into the room, a cheerful voice should say _'what's up, boss?'_

Two more steps take him to the floor in front of the case, reminding him that he'll never see that boy again.

He gazes at it unflinchingly, as if he's memorizing it even though he already knows every damned detail. Knows every tear in the fabric, every bloodstain. Every curve that makes up the horrific letters, dripping down the front of the uniform like blood.

He thinks of Alfred's disapproval, Dick's sorrow, and tries to bury the stab of pain in his chest. He hangs his head. He's killed so many people that he's almost lost count--no.

It's worse.

He hasn't kept count. He hasn't bothered.

And yet, the Joker still lives.

The joke really is on him.

  
___

 

Jason's small hands are shaking on the grip of the gun, shaking so hard that Bruce is afraid he'll fire by accident, that he'll kill the man or hurt himself without even meaning to. Fear is making his pulse pound, but his own hand is so, so careful as he reaches out. "Robin. Stand down. You don't want to do this."

 _"Yes I do!"_ Jason screams, snapping his head to the side to glare at Bruce. And even though his eyes are covered by white out lenses, Bruce knows from the break in his voice and the sudden tightness of his jaw that he's about to cry, and his heart hurts almost as badly as it did the day his parents died.

The man Jason's pressing the gun to is unconscious, tied efficiently with duct tape and secured upside down. Very well designed and nearly impossible to escape. He taught Jason how to tie someone like that.

He nearly collapses right there, a familiar horror washing over him. What has he done to his child? He shakes his head violently, banishing the thought. He doesn't have time to give in to it now. "Robin," he tries again, pitching his voice gently, like he would if they were at home and Jason was having a nightmare. Like he would if Jason were injured and crying, as he has been too many times. Like he would if he were just speaking to his son the way he should all the time. "You can't do this. There's no evidence. This isn't our call."

Jason scoffs in disgust, the tears in his voice even more evident. "Bullshit. There was evidence. You don't kill yourself over nothing. Every person in this damned town knows he's guilty. And you do, too." Jason whips his feral, glowing gaze back to Bruce. He turns off the safety suddenly, the metallic click sending a chill down Bruce's spine. "You and I both know the only reason we're on this rooftop right now is because we're the only ones who can do anything here. The only ones who can make sure justice is served. He deserves to die, and you know it." Jason's voice wavers. "Don't deny it." His voice goes soft and small and horribly broken. "Don't _lie_ to me."

Bruce splutters helplessly. _"Jason,"_ he begs, and he hears his son's breath hitch the slightest bit. He makes his decision, takes two steps forward and grabs the boy, firmly but gently by his shoulders. Jason stiffens, whips the gun up and lowers it right at Bruce's head. Bruce feels as though his heart's stopped, but he doesn't move, doesn't break Jason's gaze. He brings his hand up and cradles the boy's chin, ignoring the gun entirely. "Oh, baby," he breathes, tilting Jason's face up towards his. Tears are streaking down Jason's face now, and his breath is coming in desperate, shaky spurts. "How can we claim to protect this city and its people if we don't trust them to do what's right?" He strokes Jason's stray bangs back from his mask. "How can we do anything if we believe it'll never get better? What are we fighting for if this fight is hopeless?"

"For actual protection." Jason snarls brokenly, and all Bruce sees is the malnourished, bruised child he found stealing his tires on a cold night. "For permanent safety. A court wouldn't even convict this bastard. Why the hell would they convict anyone else? They're back killing within a month." Jason draws a shaky gasp. "This is the only way."

"No, Jason. I don't believe that. I won't believe that." Bruce insists. "There are good people, Jason. They'll do the right thing even if it costs them."

Jason gives a choked sob. "Maybe that's what I'm doing," he growls, wetly but determinedly. Bruce's heart sinks. "I'm not a good person, Bruce. I'm not like _Dick_." Jason spits. "If you--" his voice falters, "--if you hate me for it, I don't blame you, but stay out of my--"

 _"Jason,"_ Bruce chokes and pulls him in, crushes him against his chest, cards through his hair almost desperately. Jason is cold, every bit of his body faintly shaking, thrumming like a wire. "I don't hate you. I could never hate you. I will _never_ hate you, I swear. You're my son, and nothing is going to change that."

Jason is limp against him now, quietly sobbing, and Bruce goes on. "This isn't about Dick. I love him to death, you know that, but he's not you. I know that. I love you because you're Jason. And I know you have a darkness within you, and I don't care." He holds Jason tighter. "I love you. I trust you.  
I know you'll do the right thing." He tilts Jason's chin up again. "Please, trust me. We have to put our faith in the law, Jason. People will surprise us. I swear to you, they can do the right thing, and they will." His voice breaks. _"Please."_

The gun falls from Jason's fingers, hits the roof with a clang, and Jason collapses against him, sobbing so hard he can barely breathe. Bruce rubs his back, holding him outright. "You're alright. Shhhh. It's alright."

"He deserves it," Jason gasps.

"I know." Bruce says.

"I'll never--" Jason hiccups. "--never stop thinking he should die. This is for you. On-only for you."

"I know, baby." He cups Jason's head. "I know."  
____

He'll be fine. He'll be fine. He'll be fine.

Bruce repeats Dick's shaky words in his head like a mantra, over and over and _over_ as the wind whips past him, buildings hurtling by too quickly. His pulse is pounding so hard that he feels like his heart will give out, but it _can't_ , he can't do that because _Jason_...

The Joker took him. He's had him for nearly four hours now. Bruce never would have found him, they might have disappeared forever, but Harley contacted him from a phone booth, her voice shaking. She could only stay on the line long enough to give him the address and tell him to hurry.

Now he races as quickly as is physically possible. He called Dick in a panic, all his pride and anger forgotten because he's so _scared_ right now, more afraid than he's ever been in his life. Dick is an hour away by car, but he assured Bruce he was coming, he's probably doing the same thing Batman is right now.

The tracker shows his destination less than three blocks away. He bears right hard, swings around a curve with a force that would leave him breathless if he could breathe around the weight in his chest. He presses the pedal harder even though it's already down as far as it will go, rounds the last corner. " _Jason_!" He roars without even blinking, as he sees the Joker skip out of the warehouse, dragging Harley by her wrist, completely unaware of the silent tears pouring down her cheeks. He revs the bike's engine and rolls forward.  
 

The blast shouldn't take him by surprise. But it does. He goes flying off the bike from the force of the explosion, hitting the ground and rolling.

He'll swear till the day he dies that he heard Jason scream " _Dad_!" before the blast hit. He knows it's impossible, his son had a collapsed lung, he couldn't have screamed even if he tried, was probably seconds away from drowning in his own blood as it was. But the sound, imagined or not, echoes endlessly in his ears.

He scrambles back up to his feet and runs faster than he ever has towards the rubble, and the Joker is getting away but he doesn't give a _damn_ , he doesn't have _time_. He throws rubble aside desperately, heedless of the fires still scattered about the warehouse remnants. He throws aside girders and wood chunks that are likely a hundred years old. He lifts large pieces of metal roofing. He prays. He digs.

The first he sees of his son is the back of his head. He shifts a piece of roofing and sees him, a good six feet below him. The black hair is in an unruly mop, hanging limp and disheveled, curled from the heat. " _Jason_ ," he moans as he keeps digging, moving down slowly. Too slowly. "Jason. Jason."

Finally, _finally_ , he reaches him. The boy is pinned beneath a large girder, sprawled on his side, face down. Bruce lifts the girder like it's a twig, hurls it away and crosses the distance in two steps, dropping down beside his son and gathering him into his arms, oh so careful but fevered, frantic. His hand touches something wet, and he glances down, then recoils and gags. Jason's right hand is completely gone, detached.

"Jason." He settles the boy across his lap, reaches up. Jason's head is turned to the side, his eyes closed. Bruce cups his head with both hands, threading his fingers into the tangled hair.

For a moment, he stills. He can't do this. He _can't_.

He turns his son's head so that he can see his face, and he nearly throws up. Just looking at him; his skin ashen, his face slack and empty, blood drying on a freshly-cut letter J on his left cheek, how boneless he is in Bruce's arms, he knows. His lips are slightly parted, blood trickling from between them, and he's not breathing. He's gone.

Bruce folds in on himself, his head dropping so far that he's almost pressing his forehead against Jason's. The stench of ash and smoke and blood hangs in the air around his son, and he gags again. _"Jason."_ His voice is higher than usual, choked. He feels like he's suffocating. He deserves to. He shifts Jason's head in his hands, stroking his hair. Jason's head lolls with the movement, stills again as he does.

 _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._  
He should say it out loud. Scream it. Beg it from his boy who can't answer.

Bruce starts to hyperventilate. Jason can't answer, because he's dead. Jason will never answer another question again, because he's dead. Jason will never talk, never hug him, never smile at him again because he's...

 _"Jason,"_ he chokes. "You...I--" a sob tears its way out of him violently. His throat is raw and he can hardly breathe for the pain in his chest. It hurts worse than anything in his life. His right hand slides from the back of Jason's head, finds his mask and carefully peels it off, touches his forehead, desperately cards back the bangs that hang there. "Please," he gasps. His eyes are burning, and he can barely see Jason for the tears. "Please, baby, wake up. Jay, please wake up, I--I can't, I can't..."

Jason lies still in his arms, and he whimpers and pulls him closer, pressing Jason's head against his chest and holding him like a baby. "I can't do this without you." He sobs.

He sits there, Jason cradled against him, the boy's forehead pressed against his throat, his cheek pressed against Jason's dark hair. He has no idea of what time it is, how long it's been since Jason...

"Batman!" He hears a distant, frantic cry--and he's sure there are other sounds, but that's all he can hear. His heart clenches at the sound of his eldest son's voice. But he doesn't look up.

All too soon, he hears a faint, shaking _'no,'_ and then a scuffle, and then Dick is beside him. He stands in front of Bruce and Jason, his hands clamped over his mouth. His shoulders shake. Bruce holds Jason tighter, and suddenly feels a prick in his chest. Confusion vaguely drifts in his empty mind, and he carefully eases Jason back from himself, just a bit. Horror makes his breath catch, and Dick whirls, retching.

Jason's chest and arms are wrapped in barbed wire to keep him from moving his limbs, and it's clear from the punctures in his suit and the little rivers of blood running down that he'd tried to escape despite the razor sharp needles. And for the first time, Bruce sees the neon yellow spray paint, still wet and slightly smudged from Bruce's desperate grip on Jason's body.

_HAHA! JOKES ON YOU, BATMAN._

And Bruce realizes, with a sudden, clear horror, as violent as being struck by lightning.

This is his fault.

Jason had told him as much. He'd warned him that they didn't really have the crime controlled, that he couldn't guarantee the safety of innocents if he wasn't willing to kill criminals. And he'd told Jason his way worked, promised him it did, and now Bruce is here and the Joker did this just for _fun_ and _Jason..._

He looks at his son's grey face, the blood-soaked hair above a bruised forehead and mutilated cheek. His soldier, his son, his _Jason_...is dead.

He killed him. He might as well have. The moment he took him in. He may have died on the streets, but at least then he might have been at peace, to die in a place he loved. Either way, he died alone. Alone, at the mercy of a psychopath, waiting for his father to come and save him.

Some small, wild, desperate part of Bruce's mind wants to run. Put down Jason's body, leave Dick, leave Gotham, and run as far away as he can, to try and escape the consequences of his failure, try to find some meaning in this, some way this makes sense in the grander scheme of things. To get away from his fifteen-year-old son lying cold and still in his arms.

But he can't. Won't. He can't move his hands from where they're still cradling Jason's head and his clearly broken knees.

Dick is suddenly beside him, shaking his shoulder even as he continues to weep. "B-Bruce, we...we ha-have to go."

Bruce raises his gaze from Jason's face, looks at Dick, then looks up towards the edges of the warehouse and the street. Red and blue lights are dancing all across the surfaces of the surrounding buildings, illuminating the sudden nightfall in an artificial glow. He knows he should feel urgency, but he feels nothing but hollow, raw loss where his heart used to be.

Dick tugs him to his feet, and he stumbles, Jason's body cradled protectively against him. He won't let this happen to someone else. Never again. He failed his son in life. He won't fail him now.

He was right all along, Bruce realizes. Only now does he know what Jason felt behind those burning white eyes; a thirst for vengeance. Blood for blood. He clenches his fist, the one tucked beneath Jason's knee.

 _I won't fail you again, Jason,_ he swears. _I won't let anyone else suffer. I'll make them pay. Every last one of them._

As a child, he stained his hands with his parent's blood, trying to put it all back in, undo what had been done, bring back what the world had taken from him. The guilt that consumed him from that day had given birth to the Batman.

Now, his hands are stained in his own child's blood, and the guilt has become a feverish, cruel frenzy. _Rage._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> idk. Hit me up on tumblr if you like to be depressed. autumnhobbit.tumblr.com


End file.
